It’s a drab evening — 
the clouds are funeral plumes 
sailing into the sunset
(which is a flaming pyre)
with your soul,
leaving behind an empty cask 
drained of all emotion
and all else
that sets you apart.
All evenings are the same — 
drab and desolate,
clothed in shades of gray.
It makes you wonder
at the hatred you have
for those recurring phrases
that phase out your destiny.
It makes you whisper,
softly, to yourself — 
that life is not
a book of adjectives
where nothing has permanence; 
that a change will take place 
where words will have meaning; 
and that things are working 
themselves into a head
to burst like a pimple
spewing forth a new concept
of yourself (and others)
in a rushing, gushing,
volcanic flow of insight, 
honeyed treacle
and sweetened sugar.